


old gods

by tsumukita (genesites)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Kita Shinsuke Cleans, Kita Shinsuke Philosophizes, Pre-Time Skip, romantic atsukita if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genesites/pseuds/tsumukita
Summary: A familiar sense of calm washes over him. Following the ebb and flow of an ocean’s lungs, Shinsuke loses himself in his ritual. His mind is clear, and his heart hums, at peace.Shinsuke and Atsumu are on cleaning duty.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke & Miya Atsumu, Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 16
Kudos: 126





	old gods

**Author's Note:**

> :: Taiyuin-byo — A shrine located in Rinnoji Temple in Nikko, Japan. The Nitenmon gate at the entrance houses one of the two most notable pairs of sculptures of the Japanese thunder and wind gods, Raijin and Fujin, respectively!  
>    
>  :: The Japanese deities alluded to in the fic are Amaterasu and Izanami; Raijin and Fujin; and Kuebiko!  
>    
>  I hope you enjoy reading!

It’s a little while after the last of the members have trickled out, and Shinsuke finds himself alone in the gymnasium with Atsumu. They’re on cleaning duty today—it’s supposed to be just Shinsuke, to be honest, but an incident at practice has caused Atsumu to linger around to accompany him in his duties.

A green light from Shinsuke permitted Atsumu to leave as soon as they’ve set down the net and Atsumu had mopped the floors under his watchful eyes. Strangely, as Shinsuke busies himself with several volleyballs yet to be scrubbed clean, Atsumu still hasn’t dashed to the doors, as he so often did.

He must want something.

Towel in hand, Shinsuke sits down, reaches for a ball, and begins his ritual. A second or two passes; he doesn’t utter anything, only waits for the impending question that he knows is bound to come.

“What’s so cool about cleaning, anyway?”

While the words register in his brain, Shinsuke’s hands do not pause from wiping down the volleyball. Carefully, carefully. The towel beneath his palms leaves streaks of moisture across the yellow and blue surface. Damp microfiber slides over the circumference, taking with it the layers of sweat and dirt that accumulated on the leather. Wipe, turn, wipe.

After a few strokes, he holds the ball up, turning it in his palms to inspect every inch. The surface gleams with the sun’s rays filtering through the windows. Satisfied with the result, Shinsuke hands the ball over to Atsumu.

“Scrub this one dry.”

The boy takes it with a huff, and Shinsuke fetches another ball.

“Ya still haven’t answered my question,” says Atsumu, a degree of politeness in his tone. Still, Shinsuke can sense a smidge of impatience under the layers. “I wanna ask, ‘cause I really could be doin’ anythin’ else other than this. Like practicin’ that limbo toss. Or beatin’ ‘Samu’s ass at Winning Eleven.”

“So why don’tcha?” Shinsuke says, tone light. “I gave ya the go-ahead.”

Atsumu’s face is twisted when Shinsuke glances across. “Well. I got curious, so...” He trails away, before tacking on in haste, “And ya got me doin’ cleaning duty in the first place! That’s why.”

Microfiber upon leather. Carefully, carefully, as the cloth leaves streaks of moisture across the surface.

“If ya hadn’t purposely served right at Osamu’s head back during practice,” Shinsuke says, voice mild, thumb swiping along the indents of the ball, “then ya wouldn’t be stuck here doin’ cleaning duty.”

“His block hit me right in the face!” comes the protest.

“And you two got into a brawl ‘cause of it.” Shinsuke spares another glimpse in Atsumu’s direction. The volleyball sits in-between his large palms, a faint sheen on the surface indicating that he hasn’t moved an inch to dry it. “I’d answer your question when I see ya doin’ what I told ya to do.”

His statement is met with a grumble and the telltale squeak of towel sliding against the ball. Shinsuke restrains a smile, and he waits until Atsumu tosses it into the cart beside him before he holds out another.

Atsumu accepts it without a word, working on autopilot as his hands swipe down with hefty strokes. His movements bleed with a sense of hurry—brisk and laden with the barest hint of abandon—much unlike the gentle attention that Shinsuke embeds in his gestures. Still, for all their differences, their goal at the moment remains the same.

Turn, wipe, turn. A flick of a wrist, the sweep of microfiber cloth. The motions cause a sense of calm to wash over Shinsuke, and he immerses himself in the repetition. Wipe, turn, wipe. There is the comfort that hangs above his shoulders at seeing the grime vanish beneath his palms with one, two, three strokes; there is the satisfaction that wells whenever Shinsuke raises the ball to the late afternoon sun.

Yellow and blue has never looked this brand new.

“It’s all about the maintenance,” he says all of the sudden.

Even without looking, Shinsuke knows that Atsumu has perked up from where he’s sitting, so he explains, “You practice an’ play volleyball for five days straight, but at the end of the day you go home to rest so that your body can recover.”

“Well, obviously,” Atsumu interjects, confused. A frown has settled on his forehead when he takes the ball that Shinsuke gives him.

“I’m not yet finished.” Shinsuke shoots him a stern look. He continues as he folds his towel to set it down, “Cleaning’s like that, in a sense. You use all these equipment, like this ball or that net, all so that you could play volleyball without a hitch. But ya gotta remember to store things back to their place so that you can use ‘em again. Ya wouldn’t wanna leave the net just hangin’, right? You gotta set it down.”

“Actually, I would,” says Atsumu, matter-of-fact. Yellow and blue coalesce into a blur as Atsumu spins the ball on his thumb. “I wouldn’t have to set it up again that way, ya’know. And I could keep playin’ volleyball _all_ day long if that’s the case.”

“And what would ya do if it gets torn from your endless playin’?” The ball wobbles in its axis, dropping onto Atsumu’s lap. “You won’t be able to do more volleyball with a ripped net, can ya?”

“Hey.” Atsumu brandishes a finger at Shinsuke, eyes narrowed. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Or what if the ball collects so much sweat and dirt that when you toss your fingers dig into a thick layer of filth? You’re gonna be tossin’ a dirtball instead of a volleyball, and all ‘cuz ya didn’t clean it up.” Shinsuke’s aware that the notion is extremely far-fetched, too illogical to be grounded in reality, but he keeps his expression stoic as he raises his brows.

“Would ya like that?”

“Okay, where the heck are these worst-case scenarios even comin’ from?” Atsumu balks. “And ya sound like those ol’ grandpas with their stupid ol’ superstitions! A dirtball’s not even possible!”

“You’re right,” Shinsuke says gravely. “What’s worse is the ball actually landin’ on excrement and havin’ to toss—”

“ _Kita-saaaan._ ”

A grin threatens to break out of Shinsuke’s face. _Too easy to rile up._ As expected, Atsumu doesn’t miss the twitch of a smile.

“You’re laughin’ at me!” he accuses.

Shinsuke presses his lips into a thin line. “I ain’t.”

He is.

“You _are._ I could see a smile forming—see, you’re laughin’ at me f’real now!”

Shinsuke shakes his head, but it doesn’t stop the bark of laughter that rises from his throat, unbidden, when he throws his head back. He tries to subdue it with a hand to his lips, but Atsumu’s face, red with chagrin, sends his shoulders shaking once again.

“It’s just that ya do things as if someone’s always watchin’ ya,” Atsumu blurts out, and all at once Shinsuke stills in his movements. The surprise must’ve shown on his face somehow, because Atsumu’s suddenly sputtering as he retraces back his words.

“I mean, I’ve just seen ya look _real_ focused while cleanin’,” he says, hands raised and eyes expanding in earnest. “We were wonderin’ about it, honestly—Suna, Gin, ‘Samu an’ I—and ya just looked goody-goody while doin’ it, ya’know, so I thought, _maybe_ he thinks he’ll earn some brownie points by cleanin’ and doin’ things by the book. And then Suna said, nah, he must’ve—”

Atsumu suddenly halts, mouth gaping open mid-sentence as realization appears to club him over the head. Shinsuke watches the gradual crawl of terror etch the lines of his face, broad shoulders hunching up to his ears.

“Ya’know what, I’ll stop talkin’.”

Shinsuke doesn’t blink. His mind is doing a semi-decent job at catching up to the progression of events, and while the cogs in his brain turn to process Atsumu’s outburst, he finds himself staring at the crown of Atsumu’s bowed head. A sheepish hand is rubbing at the fade of his undercut. The tips of his ears are flaming red.

“Sorry,” Atsumu mutters. Silence falls between the two of them.

Before Shinsuke can get a word out, Atsumu grabs the volleyball that lay forgotten between his crossed legs, wipes at it even if it has long dried. His eyes are resolute in the way they focus on the movements: Wipe, turn, wipe. Microfiber against leather. Rinse, repeat. The leather looks as good as new when Atsumu tosses it back to the cart.

Little by little, Shinsuke follows. He picks up the towel, and the steady brush of a clothed palm slides against the stretch of the ball. From afar or inside his head, he hears the quality of a voice as thin as gossamer, lilting and thrumming with verve. Yellow and blue morph into the yellowing pages of a novel; where the strong lines of his hands lay on his lap become cherubic little fists resting atop an old book.

Shinsuke is eight when his grandmother tells him tales of the old gods. He watches with curiosity as her form stoops over their veranda, arm drawing lines on the floorboards with a wet towel.

From her mouth then spills the stories of goddesses reigning over the sun and life itself, wrenched away from their beloveds; of gods that roar from the gates of Taiyuin-byo, bearing taiko drums and bags of wind. Of gods flittering among the scarecrows in the paddies, all-knowing; of Inari themselves, peering from the clouds with every seed of rice sown. Without fail, Shinsuke has held onto every word with the same reverence that came out of his grandmother’s lips.

She has smiled at him back then, all teeth and carrying every bit of wisdom in the world that only grandmothers possess. _The gods are always watching over us, Shin-chan._ And with the bright-eyed wonder that children his age were capable of, Shinsuke listens.

Over a bucket of water, murky with the day’s work, and towels twisted dry. Over every sweep of the floors, or the prayers muttered during meals, or the rise of his body when the sun begins to kiss the horizon. All the routines that Shinsuke has carved and tucked into the motions of his limbs, even after he learns to grow into his own skin. The gods are watching. Someone always is.

But.

“I don’t do it just because someone’s watchin’ over me,” he says. Gone are the yellowed pages of a story he has long ceased to remember. Underneath his skin, the leather of the volleyball weighs smooth. It rests in his palms and anchors him to the present.

When Shinsuke looks to his side, he sees not the shape of his grandma’s stooped body, but Atsumu’s form, cross-legged and nervous. He is staring at Shinsuke the way someone holds onto another’s every word with reverence.

Shinsuke flits his gaze back to his hands. For some reason, his fingers tremble when he bears them aloft.

“Just like how we take measures to keep our bodies in top form so we can practice and play volleyball over and over,” he begins. Pauses, and notes the minute tremor in his voice. Has he been affected by what Atsumu has said? Shinsuke takes a steadying breath.

Wipe, turn, wipe. Microfiber against leather. He eases the trembles away with his following exhale.

“I clean and maintain all these things so that I’ll be able to use ‘em without worryin’ about anythin’ going wrong. Just like how ya trim your fingernails so they won’t get in the way of your tosses, or how ya work out an’ eat the right food to make your muscles stronger… I do all these things ‘cause it’s what needs to be done. ‘Cause it feels right.”

A familiar sense of calm washes over him. Following the ebb and flow of an ocean’s lungs, Shinsuke loses himself in his ritual. His mind is clear, and his heart hums, at peace.

Somewhere along the way, it becomes less about serving to appease divine omnipresence. He grows up—not apart from the gods, but just enough to discern that what he’s doing isn’t for anyone at all. What use will omnipresence be, after all, when he’s all but broken down and dissolved into the earth? What use is providence when he can mold his lifetime with his fingertips?

Shinsuke has decided, then, when fulfillment unfurls from the depths of his ribs, gentle like the stroke of a damp towel against leather, that all this is for him.

“Wipin’ the sweat off these volleyballs, moppin’ the floors, goin’ home to eat a hearty meal, and takin’ a good shower. Takin’ care of yourself and your surroundings, so that tomorrow, you’ll be able to do the things you wanna do again in peak condition…”

There is a smile on Shinsuke’s features as he turns to face Atsumu.

“Doesn’t that feel really good?”

Atsumu’s mouth is hanging open. Seconds tick by that they stay like that; as if snapping out of a daze, Shinsuke’s eyes widen, before he slides them to the farthest corner of the gym. The sky outside has turned a brilliant red-orange color.

“Ah.” He doesn’t understand why his cheeks are permeating with heat, or why he feels stripped to his bare bones. He’s usually a lot more composed than this. “I went off on a tangent again.”

“Huh,” Atsumu pipes up, contemplative. “Peak condition, you say.”

Shinsuke chances a glance, and discovers him already staring. 

“That was _really_ cool, Kita-san.” Atsumu’s fingers curl into a thumbs-up. His face draws into a serious expression. “I felt your passion back there, one hundred percent.”

If Shinsuke allows himself to indulge in the notion, he’ll be able to distinguish the awe in his tone. But the sun is setting, and they have volleyball carts to stow away, a gymnasium to lock up, bodies to fill with food and taken to rest.

“Really, now.” Shaking his head, Shinsuke gets to his feet, dusting the back of his pants and his knees. He pulls Atsumu to a rise next, falling into step beside him as he wheels the cart back to the storage room. Perhaps old gods, among other things, can wait until they’re on their way home. “C’mon, let’s put this back.”

**Author's Note:**

> ok so now that we got here i’m gonna be a little less formal. thank you so much if you reached until this part! this is my love letter to kita shinsuke, and also the first fic i published in a while, so i’m pretty proud of this hehe  
>    
>  a little behind-the-scene trivia while i was working on this: the other temple that houses the raijin and fujin sculptures is located in sanjusangen-do in kyoto. story-wise, it would’ve been a little more convenient to choose that as the place to put in the fic since it’s a lot closer to hyogo (2hrs vs 12hrs to tayuin by train) but i’ve taken one look at taiyuin-byo and i immediately fell in love. it doesn’t really affect the story much LOL but i just wanna put it out there, it’s worth checking out because it’s just so pretty OTL  
>    
>  [here](https://mobile.twitter.com/keyenpepper) is my twitter if you wanna see what i’ve been doing !! yall can check out my art too oho. let me know what you think about this in the comments! <3


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